


Make Me Say It

by Catzgirl



Series: Keen and Cunning [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Indulgent, i just like these boys okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzgirl/pseuds/Catzgirl
Summary: Your girl is back on her bullshit! I managed to catch about an hour of tonight's episode before having to finish this and go to bed! So here it is: the last bit I'll write for these guys until I get around to finishing episode 8 sometime this weekend. Thanks so much for the comments and kudos on the first two parts, you guys are instrumental in keeping me motivated to bust these out! There's some references to both of the previous parts, but it could totes be read as a stand alone.There's some brief mention of injury and violence, but I don't feel like it's super graphic? The sex however, is p. explicit! So if that's not your thing!! I don't know why you're here!





	Make Me Say It

**Author's Note:**

> Your girl is back on her bullshit! I managed to catch about an hour of tonight's episode before having to finish this and go to bed! So here it is: the last bit I'll write for these guys until I get around to finishing episode 8 sometime this weekend. Thanks so much for the comments and kudos on the first two parts, you guys are instrumental in keeping me motivated to bust these out! There's some references to both of the previous parts, but it could totes be read as a stand alone.  
> There's some brief mention of injury and violence, but I don't feel like it's super graphic? The sex however, is p. explicit! So if that's not your thing!! I don't know why you're here!

There's a table and bed, but he uses the floor. Spreads his coat out to cushion his knees and lays the cards face down and closes his eyes as he sets the reading. 

If he's very quiet (and he usually is, except when he's not) he can hear the others downstairs making merry and sloshing in their cups. Good—they deserve to celebrate after this disaster of a week. ( _Molly breathes in, breathes out, lets the cards that need to slip through his fingers._ ) The Gnoll fight had been a very near thing. They've not made out so poorly since the early days of their travels. He's never had so many near-death experiences with the same ragtag group of misfits, and he traveled with the Carnival for what? Two years? 

There's a buzzing in the back of his horns. The scars on his chest itch in the open air, and he knows that the line of thought he's on ends only in headaches and anger. He feels the spread in front of him. Decides he's angry enough for the time being. Lets the cards that need to move through the deck. 

The biggest secret of prophecy is that there's no trick to it. In his tent, people could watch Mollymauk Tealeaf the Tiefling tell the tales of anyone's life from start to finish. He would flick his ring-bedecked fingers, would tilt his head and let the pretty gold chains of his horns tinkle merrily, would sweep his coat around him in mystery and pomp and make it fun, make each reading its own little show. He'd tell them what they wanted to hear: love and reconciliation and old hurts laid to rest. They'd throw gold and silver pieces to him and thank him for his time and the cards would vibrate in his hands with unspent energy, with the  _lie_ of it all. 

In the room of an inn that he will not sleep in, with his—friends? Cohorts? He has gotten too close for the lines to be so badly blurred- downstairs drinking without him, in only his undershirt and pants, he doesn't bother. There's no trick to prophecy, really. He's just letting the cards do what they need to. 

Simple is best: three cards, Past and Present and Future. His movements are crisp and sharp with the ease of many years of practice (more than two, but how and when and where?) He sets them each where they go, left and middle and right, pauses  _(there's no trick to_ _prophecy, but Molly is_ _well-versed_ _in the art of_ _drama)_ and sweeps them up without looking. Shuffles them back into the deck and breathes deep, meditates, lets the deck reset. 

 _Let this be the warning,_  he'd thought, Caleb's pulse at his mouth, not sure if he'd would ever wake. They'd had left chunks of the wizard's flesh, bits of  _organs_ , with the gnoll corpses. He and Caleb were- whatever they were- so he hadn't burned those bits as he would have a body. Had wanted to leave them, burn all of Caleb at once if that's what it came to. And there had been a burning the next morning, a ridding of the evidence of their troubles. Molly had himself tossed part of a kidney into the fire, had watched it blacken and wither in the flames. 

 _Let this be the_ warning, he'd prayed to whoever was listening, begging for Caleb's life the only way he knew how. The deck vibrates in his hands, silent accuser, and he knows it's cheating but if he doesn't actually look at the cards, at the reading, he's not technically repeating his mistakes- he can't ignore a warning he doesn't receive. 

(He's got no Trickster god on his side, there's no Traveler or Patron for him, so there's no one to hold him accountable—he hopes.) 

The others are downstairs drinking and celebrating, but Mollymauk sits on his silk cloak and flips the cards over and over and over again. 

He runs his fingers, eyes closed so tight that even his dark vision can't get through, over the three-card spread. He's cheating fate, tempting the universe, as he sets the cards and doesn't look (Molly knows his cards by touch alone, Molly knows he's only pulled the same three cards with this spread) so he shuffles them back into the deck, breathes deep, meditates and lets it reset. Prophecy is a fickle thing: the simplest thing can change the future, ripple effect. So he draws the spread again, and again, and again. 

Caleb is awake, somewhere in the inn. The wizard had been in bed a full day after they'd arrived, sporadically conscious, before waking with eyes that were weary but thankful and- 

Too much. Too soon. 

Molly had withdrawn to his room and his cards and tried to be as silent inside as he is out. The cards do all the work for him, so he can float in his own headspace as the spread takes form in front of him and he doesn't look and no one holds him accountable (but then who sends the prophecies? Who places the cards where they need to be?) 

They're not just bits of parchment. There's a textured seal to them that keeps them dry, keeps them from aging, keeps them. The sealant on each is identical, it's impossible to tell them apart without looking (he lays the Nine of Swords to his left- the Past, what Was, knows it definitively and without ever glimpsing the nightmare-ridden figure depicted on it.) 

A knock at the door, as his fingers brush over the unseen card- he flips it so that it remains a mystery, does not acknowledge his visitor. 

"Hey, man," Beau says, cracking the door, "Offers still open, if you wanna come and, you know, drink or something." 

Gold chains drift in his peripheral as he glances over, finds that she's cracked the door just enough to make herself heard. The shake of his head is lost on her, so he clears his throat, says in his best showman's voice, "Thank you, but I rather think not." 

And since she's not watching and it doesn't matter, he draws the next card, lays it facedown directly in front of him, wonders what it is even as he knows he will never ever look (the Nine of Wands: he fidgets with it, unsure if it wants to be inverted or not. Knows that the indecision is an answer of itself.) She calls, "Alright, I'll, uh, come check on you again later?" 

"Unnecessary," he breezes back, "But appreciated!" His tone is final but friendly. 

He does not ask who sent her to check on him, doesn't bother asking what her motivations are—but he inverts the middle card in deference. 

"Yeah, that's really cool, buddy," Beau says, and  _her_  tone is suddenly all forced-smile and too-casual, "Alright, see you later, good talk!" The door creaks open a bit further and she says, as if over her shoulder, as if she's in a hurry, "Hey big guy, he's all yours." 

Molly's got the past and present under his fingers and he can feel his deck itching to complete the set, but doesn't touch the next card. Instead he stands, walks to the room's dinky, wooden little desk and braces himself on it. 

(He knows what the Future card will show, doesn't need to set it in it's rightful place. 

Ever the peacock, he's not sneaky enough to hide from his own cards.) 

"Am I to assume," Caleb says after he's stepped in and shut the door behind him, "That you do not wish to speak about this?" 

And what's the  _this_  they're not going to speak about? Is he pulling cards for himself or for Caleb, because he has to know and he has to stay true to it: he's already used his one warning. He cannot make the same mistake twice. 

"Caleb," he says, and doesn't know the weary voice coming out of him, "I'm not in the mood." 

(It's a lie: he's always in the mood for Caleb.) 

There are no footsteps approaching, Caleb is not getting any closer, but his voice is still firm, still strong, when he says, "Molly," and  _fuck_  but his name sounds so much better tinged with Zemnian, "You left when I woke. You left." 

(What can he say to that? It's true. Here's a secret: there's nothing at all to prophecy. It's the entire rest of life that's tricky.) 

(Specifically the bits that involve other people.) 

He tries for mild, hears himself fall flat, "It's not as if I went very far." A joke, or it could have been. 

"I understand why you might be upset-" 

"You stepped in front of a Flind, Caleb." He lets his head fall back, tries to shake the tension from his shoulders, but between the man behind him and the itch from his deck, there's no quieting the buzzing in his head. 

"Nott was in danger-" 

"Caleb," he's not trying for mild anymore, he's letting the anger leak through because maybe that'll be what it takes for the point to hit, "You stepped  _in front_  of a  _Flind_." 

A beat of silence, and he can hear Caleb swallow, knows that this is probably the last thing a recovering man needs, but hadn't he distanced himself? Hadn't he removed himself from the situation? As he tips his head back to loose a long sigh at the ceiling, he muses that Caleb wouldn't come looking for a fight he can't handle. 

"I am beyond upset," he admits when it becomes clear that Caleb has nothing further to add, "You could have been- what would I have done if-" 

But Caleb is resolute when he interrupts, "Better me than Nott." 

Every fucking thought goes right out of his head. " ** _Don't you dare_** ," he snaps, and the words are already out of his mouth by the time he realizes that it's Infernal and that,  _godsdamnit_ , Infernal can  _hurt_  people, and his stomach actually lurches at the thought as he spins around to see if the blow lands true. 

Caleb looks like a fucking ghost. His complexion is even paler than usual, a sharp contrast to his ruddy hair. But it's the eyes that do it for Molly, and even though Caleb's voice is at full strength, his eyes betray his exhaustion, his lingering pain, and they widen as whatever power is in Molly's native tongue spears through his psyche. 

If there's anyone that needs  _more_  mental anguish, they're not in this room. 

"Caleb," he says, but Caleb's eyes narrow from pain to rage in an instant— _people_ forget that there's fire in the demure wizard's veins, but _Molly_ never does. 

"I would do it again," Caleb hisses, "For Nott. For  _you_. For any of you!" 

Molly's tail thrashes so hard it topples the chair, both of his hands are clenched and he knows he's trembling, knows he's only barely in check when he yells, "That's madness! That's idiocy! What would we do without you?" And Caleb is shaking now, too, though from anger or being only recently back on his feet is anyone's guess, his accent is bleeding on everything, "How could I live with myself for giving anything less than everything? What would I do with that burden?"  

They are yelling. They should stop. 

(The Nine of Swords for nightmares and failures and pain. The inverted Nine of Wands for paranoia, anxiety, old habits that bring the victim to ruin. 

What's the future hold, Molly?) 

He bellows, " **I love you** ," as though the words scald his throat. This is not how he wanted this conversation to go. 

Someone downstairs falls out of their chair, someone is getting patted on the back as another chokes on their drink. He hears it, marks it, continues, "I can't do this if you're going to throw your life away-" 

And Caleb is truly furious—they are evenly matched in this and nothing else—as he matches Molly's volume, "I only did what I could, I had no choice," and Molly is not going to stand here and listen to this bullshit, can't help himself from laughing, "Caleb you killed it all by your lonesome self not a moment later. You burned it to the bone, for the gods sakes! You put yourself at risk for  **no**  reason-" and Caleb isn't finished, talks over him, "Nott is a good enough reason for me, I saw her in danger and  _moved_ ," but a carnival is a great place to learn voice projection so Molly persists, "I watched your feckin' kidneys regrow, Caleb, so excuse me if I-" 

" ** _I love you_** ," Caleb says in something approximating a scream, clutches his side because it's probably still tender from the healing, "But godsdamnit Molly, it's like loving a ghost!" 

"Get out," Molly snarls, "Get out right now," because he doesn't have to listen to this shit. He bathed Caleb himself not two days ago, laid him to rest in an inn bed that had the potential to become his deathbed, had cried until he'd vomited at the thought of never seeing Caleb's blue-gray eyes filled with light and laughter and magic again. 

(Prophecy is a fickle thing: the simplest of things can change it. 

He has the Nine of Swords and the Nine of Wands, and that's not coincidence. There's power in numbers, he knows, power in not being alone. 

He's been drawing the same three cards for hours, hoping that they'd change. 

They haven't.) 

They're filled only with pain and rage, now, and Caleb lets his voice drop to a whisper: "Do you think I don't notice the nights you have nightmares? Do you think I don't notice that for a Blood Hunter, you're woefully lacking in monster knowledge? Do you think I don't hear the lies in your voice when you talk about life before the carnival?" There's only the lamplight and whatever of the moon leaks in, but it's enough for him to see the sheen of sweat on Caleb's face, the quiver in his lips as he licks them, hisses, "You are a damned hard man to love, but I love you. I don't ask you any questions, I don't call you on your bullshit, and in return-" 

"I'm a fucking amnesiac," Molly says before he can lose the nerve. 

(Prophecy is a fickle thing: ripple effect. 

If Death is his Future, he might as well greet it as a friend.) 

"I've been in the carnival for as long as I can remember," and his gaze does not waver, but neither do his fists relax, and his tail twinges in time with his heart, "Two years, to be exact." 

He expects incredulous. He expects mistrust. He even expects doubt. 

He doesn't know how to react when Caleb covers his face with one hand, chest shaking with silent laughter. 

How long is too long to wait for the love of his life to stop laughing at the supreme agony of his existence? Because they spend a very long time indeed standing at opposite ends of the room as Caleb's laughter rises and grows into something guffawing, into a deep belly laugh that Molly himself has never been able to pull from him. 

The tips of his ears are burning, his entire face is probably absolutely violet as he narrows his eyes and growls again, "Get. Out. Now." 

The words seem to snap Caleb back into himself, he holds out placating hands and says, "Oh, _mein Schatz_ ," he sighs on the tail end of his final laughs. Molly can feel himself physically cringing away, back pressed against the desk as Caleb makes a shakey, stumbling approach, "Oh, _mein Schatz_ , _mein Süßer,_  come here." 

Molly hisses, but quietly. He doesn't know what this change of pace means, but he has his cards firmly in mind as Caleb's hand reaches his face and gently leads him back to eye contact. 

Blue and gray and light and laughter and isn't this everything he wanted? 

"From birth," Caleb says, "I remember everything. Everything." 

 _Oh,_ he thinks. Because he knows that Caleb never forgets a spell, he's seen Caleb help Jester hunt for herbs, he's tested Caleb's uncanny knack of always knowing the exact time, and it's convenient that Caleb remembers the face of everyone they meet and the name that goes with it. How stupid, how selfish that he has noticed all of these gifts, all of these wonderful qualities, and never once thought of what a curse it might be to be trapped inside a memory that is perfect in every detail. 

(The Nine of Swords is for nightmares and anxiety and more besides, placed in the Past he'd thought because this week has been a nightmare. How stupid, how selfish, how shallow is he?) 

Caleb's hand no longer trembles. From the first moment of contact, all the tension runs out of Molly, and Caleb seems to absorb it, turn it into sturdiness and focus—and isn't this what they do best? Don't they always play off one another's strengths in all the right ways? 

"We are quite the pair, aren't we?" Caleb asks, one hand on Molly's face, the other trailing over the scars on his chest. His hands don't itch anymore. The headache that's been building for days has vanished. Instead he feels lightning flowing from Caleb's finger as it makes lazy circles on his bare skin, as his grip on Molly's face turns soft, a blush that's almost shy rising in Caleb's cheeks. "You can't remember," Caleb muses, ducking his head, "And I can't forget." 

Kissing Caleb doesn't suddenly unlock his memory. Kissing Caleb doesn't suddenly make the anger, the fear between them disappear. Kissing Caleb doesn't mean that they won't have another talk later, longer, about what it means for two men who are broken and desperate to be in love. 

But it's a hell of a start. 

His hands are suddenly in Caleb's hair, his mouth moving with fervor because,  _holy shit,_ he could have lost this. Caleb is warm and alive and in his arms, and he came so dangerously close to losing it all that he has to press himself hard against his love, his heart, to convince himself it's real. 

"Caleb," he moans, and thrills when Caleb can only answer with a gasp, because this is the power that matters. Someone somewhere trained him to be a Blood Hunter, taught him about monsters and magic and how to survive, and he's eternally grateful; real power is when his hands move to Caleb's waist and  _lift_  and Caleb wraps every long, lean inch of legs around Molly's body. It's so much like the first time that he's halfway through a purr without knowing when it started, he's setting Caleb on the bed before he knows that he's moving; real power is that Caleb's pants are already off, real power is that their mouths meet again as soon as their shirts are tossed away- 

(Death isn’t always an obvious card. Something  _has_  died between them, something bitter and begrudging and bleak. 

Where Death goes, rebirth and renewal follow.) 

And it's not gentle, even though Caleb's barely up for standing, it's urgent and claiming and rough: Molly slips down down down to lave with his tongue at the new scar on Caleb's side, jagged and fresh where he'd been torn in two, presses soothing kisses before nipping purposefully, whispers against it, "You almost gave me a heart attack." 

He glances up—red and blue that mix to match his skin tone exactly, and there's a secret pleasure in the knowledge, silly as it is—to find that Caleb is not a bit aggrieved, not a bit remorseful, seems more bemused than anything, and decides  _well that simply won't do._  

He has clever fingers and he knows it. Clever and deft as they wind down Caleb's body, thumbing at the dusky nipples as they pass, trailing along Caleb's thighs just ahead of his mouth, and Caleb doesn't seem even close to laughing anymore by the time that Molly's lips part over his cock.  

Red hair against a white pillow- he doesn't have to see to know- and he pulls off with a wet  _pop_ , insistent, "What do you need,  _a_ _chroi_? Tell me," and they've come so far from brick walls and alleyways, but the stutter of his heartbeat when Caleb looks at him all heavy lidded and rasp voiced is the exact same as his wizard answers, "You, Molly." 

Caleb's cock is exactly as long and lean as the rest of him, and tastes deliciously salty at the back of his throat. The speed with which he bobs his head brings Caleb to tears, has Caleb crying out, has Caleb's hands in his hair and  _oh_  how he preens when Caleb grasps a horn in either hand and uses them to fuck into Molly's mouth. 

His tongue slides over the thick vein of the shaft, his teeth nip lightly at the foreskin in warning as he pops back off, purring, "Tell me, dearest, tell me again," because this is the real power, this is what he would fling himself at any gnoll, any flind, any manticore for. 

Caleb's voice is wrecked, he's a writhing, moaning mess exactly as Molly likes, but he still manages, "You, Molly, you, all of you,  _please_  my heart," and what sort of Tiefling would he be to refuse such pretty begging? 

The growl in the back of his throat is utterly involuntarily as he slinks up Caleb's body, bracing an elbow on either side of Caleb's head as he presses their chests, their cocks together, "Good,  _very_ good, but not what I want, dearest,  _acushla_ , say it again for me," and brushes his lips against Caleb's ear, panting and near incoherent as he makes small, controlled little rolls of his hips in counterpoint to Caleb's frantic whining. 

Wizards are almost as fickle as prophecy he thinks, as Caleb's head turns to meet his, as Caleb's teeth pull at his bottom lip, as Caleb says directly onto his mouth, " _I love you_ ," so that Mollymauk Tealeaf, the Tiefling without a home or past or any loyalties beyond the promise of tomorrow, can swallow the sound whole. 

(The inverted Nine of Wands, for fear of within instead of without, for hesitation of commitment, for all the things that he has in the Present bucked and railed against. 

 _Let this be the warning_  he'd prayed, knowing that no one was listening. 

So who has answered?) 

He leans back, hands on Caleb's chest, rises just enough on his knees that Caleb's dick presses against the rim of his asshole. He knows what he looks like, kneeling above a man. He knows that the violet flush extends from his ears to his chest, that his red eyes are more crimson in the lowlight, that every inch of his flesh is either hardened or scarred or both and that all of it is tempting. He knows, and yet watching Caleb's eyes drift over him, seeing them go all hazy and hungry; this isn't what power feels like at all and he starts a bit as he realizes, pauses so that Caleb's cock is twitching and straining against him as he realizes that this isn't power, it's exactly as Caleb said, it's  _love_. 

How utterly ridiculous. How completely unintended. The first time they'd fucked Caleb had been sobbing in his arms, half a breath from shattering, and they'd both needed the comfort and the reminder that life went on even amongst all their killing. How utterly, patently, absolutely just that they would find each other and find this love. 

" _Süßer_ ," Caleb moans, and if he didn't do it so prettily maybe Molly wouldn't make him do it so often, "I need you, please, I need you," but he does not dare make the final move, does not dare to twitch his hips. 

He knows better. He's learned that where Molly lacks the strength to change his life and the misfortunes of it, he has always seized the power to curl Caleb's toes. Mollymauk, who comes to him with pomp and circumstance, with nothing but embellishments to his name, and he furrows his finger nails into Caleb's chest and says, "Wounded man such as yourself," and lets his smile go a bit feral, because Caleb loves to be a bit out-of-his-depth (or else he wouldn't have taken a Tiefling to bed) and croons, "Probably shouldn't be doing any hard labor." He sinks, barely an inch, but it's all that's needed. Just the head of Caleb's cock breaches the rim of his ass, pops past the first ring of muscle, and he tightens every muscle available to him until Caleb's head falls back with what will later become his favorite noise the wizard has ever or will ever make. 

Immediately, he raises back off. "Watch me," he says, when Caleb jerks to see what the matter is, "Watch me  _a_ _chroi_ ,  _acushla_ , let me see you," and one hand reaches out to brush against Caleb's stubble, his smile still feral when he feels Caleb's lips press against his knuckles, his palm, and the sweet gesture is what prompts him to sink back down. 

"Oh, shit," Caleb whimpers, "Oh, _mein Schatz_ , fuck, I love you," because Caleb has the keenest mind that Molly has ever encountered, and he's a quick study to boot, so of course he's already learned the new magic words to get what he wants. 

He knows what he looks like as he bears down, knows exactly how enticing his cock looks as it bobs between them, as it leaks a puddle of precum onto Caleb's stomach. He lets the hand not holding Caleb's face wander up to play in his own hair, fingering the chains that link his ears to his horns. The light catches on the gold, reflects and refracts on the array of studs in his horns, makes the dark purple of his hair look shimmery and ethereal. 

He knows, but it's a pleasure all its own to watch Caleb enjoy it. 

When his hips meet Caleb's he pauses, flexing on that ring of muscle with tight, short little jerks of his hips, milking a cock that's not yet weeping for him, until Caleb's abdomen is heaving with effort, until Caleb's mouth is gaping with aborted little noises, until Caleb's gaze is desperate and pleading but utterly complaint and  _loving_  and oh, he could get used to this indeed. 

He draws himself up the full length of Caleb's shaft with a trilling little purr, feels every hair on his body stand on end at the noise Caleb makes under him, sinks back down. 

Caleb says, "Oh my love, my treasure, I'm not going to-" and Molly intercepts the concern, says lowly, "I don't want you to," which Caleb answers with a slew of panting breaths that border on a wail. 

He is merciful, though. He's a Tiefling in love and he's dealing with a man only recently back from the brink of death, after all. Something of a hero, in the right light. Who is he to deny his wounded wizard anything? 

He lets his pace increase, rolling and flexing in harder, faster strokes, luxuriates in the sweat that drips down his body to mingle with Caleb's. He drops both hands so that he can lean forward, so that he can lick into Caleb's mouth and taste the noises he's making, and also so that he can scrape the head of Caleb's cock on his prostrate. 

"I love you," he whispers, without any of the cleverness he's known for, with only himself and his heart, for whatever it's worth. 

"Oh fuck," Caleb gasps, hands back on Molly's horns, pulling him close, "Oh,  _Molly_ ," and then he's coming, hot spurts that sear Molly from the inside out, and it's enough that Molly's climax hits him with all the subtlety of a devil toad to the head, painting Caleb's chest and stomach with white streaks. He grips with his ass, murmurs in a voice that's as filthy as he wants to be, "Every drop, love, every bit of it," and Caleb is  _wrecked_ , is near to sobbing, "It's yours, it's yours, _oh_ , Molly," as his cock is utterly drained. 

Molly's the one, after, that fetches the washcloth. He wipes off with a spare handkerchief—a gentleman always has one handy, and he's by no means gentle so he keeps a few—and cleans Caleb up as best he can before bundling them both into the blankets of the bed. 

Somewhere downstairs there's still the noises of revelry. Caleb could tell him the exact time if he asked, but he doesn't. Just burrows his nose into the wizard's neck and says, "Sleep, love. We'll talk tomorrow." 

Caleb is always groggy after a good fuck, always foggy and hazy in all the best ways, but his voice is clear when he says, "Time for that later. Love you," and passes right the fuck out before Molly can choke on how sweet it is. 

His cards still lay on his coat across the room. 

The Nine of Swords and the Nine of Wands (there's power in numbers) and the Death (or rebirth, context is everything,) that still lays on the top of the deck. 

It's not strictly necessary, but he humors himself. With a flick of his fingers he sends a gust of wind, the Thaumaturgy all Tieflings have, to flip the final card into its proper place. 

Did he say that prophecy is a fickle thing? The simplest thing can change the future, ripple effect. The final card flips and it's not Death that greets him but the Lovers, and it's so cliché, so stupid that his eyes burn with it. 

He tucks his chin against Caleb's neck, each throb of his pulse a promise and declaration, prays to the no one that's listening,  _let this be a beginning, then._  

And it is. 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to be more descriptive with Molly's tarot cards this time around? So idk if you guys are gonna dig it, but it's done!  
> Shout out to @nierapheh for correcting my google translate German in the previous bit! Thank you and sorry for butchering your language!  
> Another huge shout out to @nevershootamockingbird for being here since day one, screaming with me over these wonderful disasters!  
> As always, please feel free to use the comments section to alert me to any typos, or just let me know whether or not you liked it!  
> You can also scream into the abyss with me at fenesvir.tumblr.com


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